


Of Wintermas Not Long Ago

by whipstitch



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen, POV Multiple, sardonic holiday non-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:18:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipstitch/pseuds/whipstitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twelve days of Wintermas are the best time of the year besides the Hunger Games! ...Well, if you're a good Capitol citizen, that is. If you're in the districts, it simply wasn't meant for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Wintermas Not Long Ago

**Author's Note:**

> Having spent the holiday season working retail, I've come to the conclusion that the consumerist aspect of US Christmas is the most Capitol thing ever, and I wouldn't be surprised if that survived even as Panem became a totally nonreligious/nonspiritual society. Soooo this happened.

_Knock knock._

Haymitch cringed without opening his eyes. Maybe the knocking was in his head, in which case it’d either go away or it wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. Therefore, no sense in getting up.

_Knock knock knock._

Alright, a different cadence probably meant it was real. He still didn’t move. The only people who ever knocked were Peacekeepers and postmen, and neither of them brought anything good. And it was so fucking cold, he wasn’t about to—  
  
 _Knock knock knock._  
  
Cold? He raised his head and squinted at the wood stove. The fuel had burned out; no wonder he was freezing. He grunted and forced himself out of the armchair, keeping the ragged quilt wrapped around himself for warmth. Might as well deal with the interloper as long as he was up. He stuck his pocketknife through the beltloop of his jeans and staggered downstairs.  
  
 _Knock knock knock knock._  
  
He opened the door, grimacing at the brightness of the sun glinting off the snow. The postman—Clem? Cal? something—stood shivering on the steps. “Afternoon, Haymitch. Package for you.”  
  
Haymitch took one look at the virulently green metallic wrapping paper and groaned. “You couldn’t have just left it?”  
  
“The sender said to get a signature.”  
  
“Of course she did.”  
  
Haymitch scribbled on the proffered clipboard, and retreated back into the house with the unwanted package. It was that time of year again, apparently. The districts didn’t give a rat’s ass about Wintermas, except in One where they couldn’t escape it. People didn’t go around _buying_ gifts just because the calendar said so. Meanwhile, Effie Trinket sent him a gift every year, as had her predecessor. Manners outweighed the obvious mutual loathing and their inability to send him anything useful.  
  
This year was no exception. Haymitch used his knife to cut away the wrapping and pulled out... a vase? A bowl? The thing was in the form of two bright pink birds with long thin beaks—yeah, Effie sure knew how to pick them— resting side by side, forming a basin between them. The whole thing was plated with some kind of metal, inlaid with tiny colored gems. The razor beaks glittered red.  
  
He decided not to think about that. Or about how much it would cost in tesserae, or how many working hours it had taken to make. Instead, he shoved it back in the box, found his boots, and headed into town. Haymitch had his own Wintermas tradition, and even this ugly thing had to be worth a handle of white liquor.

  
\---  
  
The bright cookie houses in the bakery window clashed with the rest of the street.  
  
“Nobody here can afford that,” Katniss muttered. “It’s ridiculous.”  
  
"It’s disgusting is what it is.” This was exactly why Gale didn’t like stopping by the bakery. Maybe Mr. Mellark gave a good price for squirrels—better than good, if Katniss came too—but the family was merchant through and through. “Very Merry Wintermas!” Gale read off the display, making a face. “Like that’s something we do. They’re pandering to the tourists.”  
  
“They’ve got to make money too,” Katniss pointed out.  
  
“Not by selling to Capitol vultures they don’t.”  
  
“Man, they are really pushing Wintermas this year.”  
  
Redheaded Darius stood behind them, white Peacekeeper uniform blending with the snow. Gale felt some of the blood drain from his face. Darius might frequent the Hob, but he was Capitol, and people had been whipped for saying less.  
  
Gale wasn’t sure who he hated more: Darius for being there, or himself for panicking.  
  
But Darius’ lazy attention was on the window. “I wonder if they’re going to stretch it out the full twelve days here.”  
  
“Twelve?” Katniss asked.  
  
Darius nodded. “There are twelve days in Wintermas. There’s even a song about it, though the words are pretty much nonsense—something about swans and pipers. We’re just on the first. First?” He tilted his head, calculating. “Yeah, first.”  
  
“Twelve straight days of going to parties and buying each other presents.” Katniss shook her head in disbelief.  
  
“Thirteen,” Darius corrected her.  
  
“Thirteen days?!”  
  
“Sort of. Wintermas itself only has twelve, see. But the day after it ends, it’s tradition for everyone to hit the stores in One, to return gifts they didn’t like or get new stuff that been marked down,” he explained. “It’s called Parcel Day too, funnily enough.”  
  
The shared name did it. “So you’re telling me,” Gale said slowly, making his best effort to keep his voice level, “that they buy each other things for the better part of two weeks, and then follow it up by buying even more junk for themselves.”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
Thirteen days. For _gifts_. In the Seam they maybe, _maybe_ did gifts on New Year’s if you were lucky, but mostly they were saved for Reaping Day, when being alive gave them a worthwhile reason to celebrate. Gale couldn’t even think of thirteen things he wanted for himself, much less thirteen things he’d be willing to ask for, and he highly doubted the Capitol kept it to just one present per day, knowing them. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms through his worn-out gloves. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Katniss shooting him a warning look. He ignored it. “Those sickening, motherf—”  
  
Gale was interrupted, and probably saved, by Haymitch Abernathy stumbling into their group as he slipped on the trailing hem of the stained quilt draped over his shoulders. Haymitch grunted something that might’ve been an apology but didn’t look back as he continued down the street.  
  
“Wonder where he’s headed this early,” Darius remarked.  
  
Katniss rolled her eyes. “Probably ran out of liquor.”  
  
Darius chuckled. “Well anyway, I kind of prefer it here Wintermas can get to be a little much, you know? Now I’d better get back to work in case Cray picks today to pay attention. See you two around.”  
  
Katniss nodded a goodbye. Gale seethed, looking back at the cookie houses on display. In the middle of winter, when the plants were dead and the game was scarce and the big choice in Twelve was between starving or freezing, the Capitol spent thirteen days on presents.  
  
“Come on,” he told Katniss. “Let’s get to the woods before I do something I regret.”

  
\---  
  
As the Mayor’s daughter, Madge had what some would consider special privileges. Whenever the Capitol saw fit to grace Twelve with its presence, she was guaranteed a spot. Gatherings for Panem’s leaders. Victory Tour receptions. And of course, the annual Wintermas party.  
  
Most Capitol citizens stayed home for the holiday, from what she’d gathered, but a few of the wealthier and more adventurous citizens embarked on a whirlwind tour of Panem, one district for each night of Wintermas. They hit the districts in reverse order, so Twelve was the first stop—probably so they could get it over with quickly. Madge didn’t see the point. The tourists never ventured beyond city hall and the richer parts of the square; most of the visit was spent eating and drinking, all of which they do just as well back at the Capitol.  
  
Except put her family on edge, that is. Her mother pleaded sickness to stay away from it all. Her father therefore had the adults to deal with, and Madge as the sole young person had to entertain everyone reaping age and younger. There were four of them this year.  
  
“You’re so pretty for someone from Twelve.” The comment came from the lone boy, Aias, who insisted on sitting uncomfortably close. “The tributes from your district are usually so… grimy. And almost _too_ skinny. You’re alright.” His eyes went to her chest and he flashed her a grin, as though he’d just paid her a tremendous compliment.  
  
“Your hair is so soft,” gushed Clio, who immediately began tugging at it with her sticky fingers. She couldn’t have been more than seven, which made it a little easier to tolerate.  
  
“It really is lovely. It’s just like Cashmere’s.” That was Ismene, the eldest, who’d gotten pine trees tattooed to her cheeks and kept exclaiming over how “quaint” and “lovely” things were in the districts. “How do you get it like that?”  
  
“I… shampoo and water, I guess?”  
  
Ismene laughed. “Oh, you are darling. It’s a shame you can’t come to the Capitol with us. I would love to show you off.”  
  
“Hey now, you’ll have to share!” said Aias. Madge’s stomach roiled.  
  
“Oh! Oh, oh, ohhh!” Phaedra, the middle girl, had spent the entire evening glued to a screened device that was apparently a phone. Sometimes she’d take breaks to retrieve cookies and declare how bored she was. “Clodia is at the gala at the opera house, and she says Finnick is there, and she got under the mistletoe with him!” Phaedra threw her head back dramatically. “Ughhhh, why do we have to be on this stupid trip? We could be there!”  
  
“We might meet Finnick next week when we get to District Four,” Aias said.  
  
“But I want to see him _now._ All this place has is Haymitch and he’s not even here,” Phaedra whined. “And anyway, he won’t be in Four. He’ll be in the Capitol, like everyone else who does Wintermas the _right_ way.”  
  
Madge wished Haymitch had come. It would’ve given her father fits, since he’d have to spend the whole evening on damage control. But Haymitch had this wonderful ability to say what they were all thinking, and it would’ve been nice to live vicariously.  
  
“Madge! What did you ask the Winter Man for?” Clio asked.  
  
Madge blinked. “The what?”  
  
“You don’t know?” Clio was aghast.  
  
“She’s from the districts, stupid,” said Phaedra.  
  
“Ohhh, right.” Clio stopped trying to pull Madge’s hair into mangled pigtails. “The Winter Man lives far away, on an iceberg up past the northern wastes. He wears all red and has a beard and every Wintermas, he brings all the children toys! But only if you’re good.” She looked at Madge apologetically. “That’s why he doesn’t bring toys to the district children.”  
  
“Ah, I see. That makes sense.” Madge tried her best to seem contrite.  
  
“You seem really nice, though, so I bet you’re different. I can ask for toys for you, and the Winter Man could bring them to me, and I can give them to you!” Clio beamed, proud of her plan. “You just can’t share with the bad kids.”  
  
“Oh, Clio, that’s sweet, but it’s against the rules, you know,” Ismene said.  
  
“But people give Finnick presents, and he’s from the districts!”  
  
“Well, that’s different. He’s a victor. If Madge were a victor, then she could have presents too.”  
  
“Ooo, okay!” Clio bounced on the sofa. “Madge, you should volunteer next reaping and be a victor so then you can have presents!”  
  
“Oh, I…” Madge cast about for a nice response, a response that wasn’t screaming. “I would lose, I’m sure. You know how Twelve is.”  
  
“Stranger things have happened,” said Aias. He went from staring at her face to scrutinizing it. “You know, you actually kind of look like that one girl in the Quarter Quell reruns. Haymitch’s ally. What’s her name?”  
  
“Maysillee.” Her throat closed around the name. She thought of her mother upstairs, her aunt with a hole in her neck, and leapt to her feet before she realized what she was doing. She kept herself from running and forced a laugh. “Thank you. She was very pretty. I’m going to fetch more desserts. What does everyone want?”

  
\---  
  
Sea shanties were meant to be simple and repetitive, so that sailors could sing them without thinking too hard. In Finnick’s opinion, sea shanties had nothing on Wintermas songs. If he was on his game, the tunes could be very useful—they dulled his mind, made it easier to keep his thoughts under control. The problem was that so many of them were so screamingly wrong that little bits of argument kept trickling out. Right now, for instance:  
  
 _“It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”_  
  
It wasn’t. Finnick Odair, Sex Symbol thought it was, because he liked anything that you did. Finnick Odair Who Wants To Go Home was trying very hard not to laugh, because the songs liked to gush about love and family, and he hadn’t spent a Wintermas with either since he found out that the holiday existed. Finnick Odair Who Wants To Go Home kept changing the lyrics in his head.  
  
 _It’s like most miserable times of the year!_  
 _Where it’s you that you’re selling_  
 _To everyone, telling them_  
 _“Baby, come here.”_  
 _And you hope that you don’t sound insincere._  
  
There were exactly two positives: post to other districts was quick, and Wintermas food was made primarily of sugar.  
  
“I’m going to get something sweet,” he purred to his client for the night, a Gamemaker’s nephew named… shit. “Well, you know. Besides you, babe.”  
  
That was one of the many things he hated about Wintermas. Snow limited each client to one night only during the holiday season. It meant faster escape from the worst, but it also meant twelve sets of names and preferences to remember. “Babe,” used judiciously, could get him far, but if he slipped and used the wrong persona... There were many ways to falter.  
  
He’d made it about halfway to the nearest buffet table before setting off the mistletoe. The tile beneath him flashed, and Finnick had five seconds to size up his partner. Female, old enough that she’d opted to cake her wrinkles under makeup rather than pull the skin taunt around her eyes, and wearing a gaudy wedding ring. She hadn’t grabbed for him, so she probably wasn’t trying to make her partner jealous. Finnick relaxed a little. This would be an easy one.  
  
“I hope I can make this evening memorable for you, my dear,” he said, flashing a crooked grin.  
  
The woman swatted him playfully on the chest. “Oh, you cad! My husband is here tonight, I’ll have you know.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a shame.” He placed a hand on his heart and sighed. “Never fear. I wouldn't compromise the reputation of an upstanding woman without her permission.”  
  
He kissed her with his mouth closed, one hand midway up her back, counting off four seconds in his head. She emerged from it fanning herself. “A very merry Wintermas to me, indeed!” she tittered.  
  
“The pleasure was all mine,” Finnick assured her. It was amazing how readily they all believed that particular lie.  
  
He had to tread very carefully with mistletoe, no pun intended. The Capitol citizens thought the tradition was great fun, and with each other often laughed it off. He and the other victors on duty were expected to deliver a satisfactory kiss without making their paid client jealous. There were paths through the room devoid of mistletoe, but those weren’t an option. People would wonder if Finnick Odair, Sex Symbol didn’t take the opportunity to kiss as many people as he could.  
  
 _When there’s much mistletoeing,_  
 _Instead of foregoing,_  
 _You must volunteer—_  
  
Finnick Odair Who Wants To Go Home really needed to stop doing that.  
  
He made it to the buffet table without further incident and loaded up a plate with sweets. He set the peppermint sticks to one side; he’d liked them once upon a time, but after seductively licking through five of them a night every Wintermas for the last decade, they’d lost some appeal. Thankfully, the cookies hadn’t. He popped a raspberry macaron into his mouth. Annie preferred alfajores, but those didn’t come in nearly as many flavors. Maybe he’d send a box of macarons back to Four, though he could just see Annie countering with an itemized list of Why Alfajores Are Superior, which—  
  
Finnick hurriedly locked the thoughts away. Finnick Odair, Sex Symbol didn’t have people at home.  
  
“Finnick, how are you?”  
  
Cashmere sashayed toward him with a broad smile, needle-heeled boots clacking on the floor. She spoke in a cloying voice an octave above her real one; her client must’ve specified the childish, ditzy persona that was a bizarrely popular request for the female victors. “You must be freezing!”  
  
Finnick glanced above her head and saw a sprig of mistletoe. Right; the party was long overdue for a performance kiss. “I am, a little,” he replied. “I was hoping you could warm me up.”  
  
Finnick took a step forward and set off the bells. Since Cashmere was the one playing submissive tonight, Finnick took the lead and pulled her in. Mouth open, hand squeezing her backside, ten seconds. Kissing victors was easier; it was about spectacle, not satisfaction. Just a show for the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught camera flashes.  
  
“Ooh la la, you sure know how to light a fire!” Cashmere giggled. “Are you having a good time?”  
  
“How could I not be if you’re next to me, Cashmere?” She never broke character, but she would sometimes do doubletalk with him. “And the fun has just begun. Four has nothing to compare, you know.”  
  
“Yes, you poor sweetie, you missed out! We live for Wintermas in One. All of us in the stores spend a whole month helping the Capitol prepare.” Cashmere daintily picked up a chocolate wafer. “So busy! Lines out the door, people getting so cranky if we didn’t have what they wanted. I remember twelve-hour days where we only got breaks to have our hair and faces touched up. Though we were all happy to do it, of course, because how can you not love Wintermas and Parcel Day?”  
  
“But…” She took a bite out of the wafer, and smirked in a way that almost didn’t match. “I love being here now. I had no _idea_ they had parties this grand! This is what everyone else’s hard work goes to.”  
  
Finnick arched an eyebrow. “So you don’t want to be home for Wintermas, as that song says?”  
  
“Not even in my dreams. Like one of the other songs says, it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and there are parties for hosting. The pay and company here are so much better.” She bit her lower lip and winked. “And you get to lie down on the job.”  
  
Or kneel, or stand, or bend— _no,_ that wasn’t something Finnick Odair, Sex Symbol would think, at least not in that tone. He needed to get better control. It was only the first night. “It would be a real shame if you weren’t off your feet,” he said. Good. That sounded appropriate.  
  
Cashmere giggled again and swatted him playfully. “Excuse me! A lady only leaves with the fella she came in with, as should a gentleman. I’ll see you around, Finnick baby.”  
  
She blew him a kiss over her shoulder and went to rejoin her client. Finnick picked up his plate and did the same. As he picked his way back across the floor, he permitted Finnick Odair Who Wants To Go Home one final verse:  
  
 _It’s like most miserable times of the year!_  
 _Where you sleep around knowing_  
 _That blood will be flowing_  
 _From loved ones held dear_  
 _If you’re not careful in how you appear!_

  
\---  
  
Given that exactly three other houses in the Victors Village were occupied, and given that everybody knew Johanna would probably chop your arm off if you stole from her, you’d think the postman could’ve just left the package on the stoop. So she hadn’t answered the doorbell. Who even cared? But nope, mail from the Capitol made them antsy, so Johanna had to trudge all the way into town in three feet of insufficiently plowed snow to claim her package, as the little yellow note on the door had instructed.  
  
She hadn’t thought to bring a sled with her to carry it until well after the fact, but the post office had one on hand. She’d left them one of those yellow notes in its place. _“To claim parcel, please visit ~~post office 7A~~ Victors Village #4 and ~~provide proof of identity~~ fuck yourself.”_  
  
The route into town took her past the pine fields. A large swath stood newly barren, the trees chopped down and shipped out to the Capitol. She didn’t understand the Wintermas tradition of putting up a tree. She’d seen the pictures, and okay, the decorations could be pretty. But she didn’t see why the trees had to be inside. Why not plant one in your yard, or have a tiny potted one? Because the Capitol hated being bound by things like size and weather, of course.  
  
And so the trees died.  
  
Her lip curled as she walked past the rows of stumps. Seven’s whole business was killing trees, obviously. But those were forest trees, trees they picked out as needed who went on to be something useful, even if that something was as unglamorous toilet paper. The Wintermas trees were planted in artificially straight rows and grown _just so_ they could be used as holiday props and discarded after twelve days.  
  
Every now and again, as winter rolled around, she thought about burning down a field or two. At least then they’d be ash for the soil and go back to the forest, rather than tossed like trash into a Capitol incinerator. She couldn’t quite do it, though. Killing a tree for spite was still killing a tree for nothing.  
  
Johanna pressed on up the hill and finally reached her house. She ditched the sled at the door and deposited the package on the kitchen table. “Shit, Finnick, what did you send?” she muttered as she rubbed her aching shoulders. Finnick had sent her a Wintermas gift from the Capitol every year they’d been friends. She always returned the favor with a bottle of maple syrup.  
  
She cut the box open with a nearby knife and found two bottles. That explained the heaviness; Finnick’s present always included liquor, but usually there was only one bottle. Alongside them were two wrapped packages and a card. She picked up the latter.  
  
 _Dearest comrade Johanna,_  
  
 _How is the great white north? I assume you’re buried in snow. There’s only six inches on the ground here, but that’s six inches too many. Shoes are actually necessary, and I deeply resent this._  
  
 _I decided to be a little festive with the alcohol this year. One of the bottles has spiced wine, which you’ll need to warm up in a mug first. It’s good with a cinnamon stick._  
  
 _…I say to the woman who can brew her own beer. It’s only the second morning. I’m not stupidly exhausted yet, I swear._  
  
 _I took some liberties with the gift in green wrapping paper. You’ll see what I mean. As to the one in red… well, it’s all the rage in the Capitol right now. Whatever you decide to do with that one, I’m right there with you._  
  
 _Looking forward to quality pancakes at home,_  
 _Finnick_  
  
Johanna removed the two bottles first. Besides the mulled wine was a bottle of apple-flavored whisky: an excellent choice. She next tore the wrapping off the green present. Its contents made her laugh so hard she had to sit down.  
  
She’d known the Capitol made dolls of the victors, but seeing them up close was something else. Doll versions of herself and Finnick grinned back at her from the box. The doll version of Finnick wore a pair of jeans that reached only midway down his shins, and a plaid flannel shirt that would not close. The doll of herself, meanwhile, wore only a pair of underpants made of strategically placed seashells, but carried a trident along with her ax.  
  
“Well,” she snickered, “it’s certainly more accurate that way.” She took them carefully from their boxes and sat them on the table.  
  
Then she unwrapped the red present.  
  
 _The Wonderful Story of Wintermas_ was pretty standard in many respects: another illustrated book about that moronic Winter Man bullshit that Capitol adults fed their kids. Old pale man in red, flew around at night and gave them even more toys than they already had. And she’d known something about how the Winter Man didn’t give toys to the districts because they were bad kids by default, but this book took it somewhere new.  
  
 _“The Winter Man has a helper right here in the Capitol!”_ the book said. _“Our President uses the Hunger Games to punish the naughty children, so now the Winter Man can spend all his time making good children happy.”_  
  
Beneath the text, a beaming President Snow held a reaping ball and waved merrily at the Winter Man soaring through the air with his chariot full of presents. Rosy-cheeked Capitol children skipped in the Winter Man’s wake; on Snow’s side, shifty-eyed grey-toned district children stood with weapons. Johanna gritted her teeth. But it was the next page that did it.  
  
 _“The Hunger Games let special district girls and boys prove that they are good. The Winter Man listens to his helper President Snow, and makes sure that the victors get toys too. They are very thankful, and we should be very proud. It is good to share with those who deserve it.”_  
  
The Winter Man handed out presents to a circle of ecstatic young victors, as a smiling President Snow looked on benevolently. The creepiest thing, the worst thing, was that the victors were _real_ , littler versions of how they’d looked when they won. There was Haymitch from Twelve, grinning wider than he’d probably ever grinned in his whole life after the Quell. Chaff from Eleven apparently thought a toy car was a great trade for a missing arm. Annie Cresta exclaimed over one of those inflatable pool toys, for fuck’s sake, and Finnick… even drawing him to look small, they had him without a shirt and blowing kisses at a toy mirror.  
  
And there she was, with hair in pigtails, hopping up and down and hugging a pair of axes like it was all _okay_.  
  
Johanna slammed the book down onto the table and went to stoke the fire. She almost extinguished it in her impatience, but finally the log caught again, and the fire roared back to life. She retrieved that fucking book and tore out the pages one by one. She screamed curses at the top of her lungs as she threw them to the flames.  
  
It helped some, watching them burn, but it wasn’t nearly enough.  
  
The fire finished its work all too soon. Johanna looked to her ax against the wall. She longed to take it and go back to the pine field, or to the post office, or to the Capitol uninvited and show what really happened when you let Johanna Mason play with axes—  
  
“And then they’d just kill you, brainless.”  
  
Instead, she curled up on the couch and hugged the two dolls tightly to her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that instead of just manufacturing luxury goods, (many of which could be made in a factory) District 1also sells them, making D1 the source of all of Panem's low-level retail workers the way D2 provides most of the Peacekeepers. It explains a lot! The Capitol is fond of them because it sees them the most often; they're more hesitant to rebel because they're conditioned to think serving is great; and they tend to be more attractive and in better health because, since Capitol citizens have to see them all the time, they're expected to look good.


End file.
